


Set the Heather Alight

by wildgoosechased



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Church of England, Coming Out, John is a Priest, M/M, Scotland, marine biologist Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8814331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildgoosechased/pseuds/wildgoosechased
Summary: John's an army chaplain on furlough, and decides to go on retreat to the Isle of Iona in Scotland. He's slowly coming out as bisexual to The Powers That Be in the Church of England, hoping to be able to find love one day---and that one day comes even sooner than John had hoped when he meets a brash marine biologist named Sherlock. What follows will include bogs, dancing, fiddling, kilts, and if we're lucky, a roll in the heather.Thanks and big hugs go to A_Candle_For_Sherlock, who has helped me so much with being a beta for me!





	1. Chapter 1

Setting off from the Glasgow Queen Street station at half-eight that chilly summer morning, John Watson had started on the familiar but enthralling half-day's journey of train-ferry-bus-ferry through western Scotland to the tiny isle of Iona.

 _Home away from home_ , John thought, warmth bursting in his chest, as his last ferry of the day approached the island, then added internally, . . . _away from home_. Raised in Northumberland on the Anglo-Scottish borders, John had followed in his Uncle Peter's footsteps to become an ordained priest in the Church of England, but he’d felt the need for more adventure than was given to the average parish priest--and had found more than anyone could reasonably want when he became an army chaplain.

  
Captain the Reverend John Watson had seen plenty of fast-paced action in tending to the spiritual needs and pastoral care of the troops in Camp Bastion in Helmand. Now he found himself at a bit of a loose end, being back in Britain on furlough after Her Majesty had sent him home. His homeland was ready to conclude its Afghanistan combat operations in October. That left John with a choice: early retirement, or a return to service in Afghanistan with the four hundred and fifty troops slated to be a part of the more peaceful Resolute Support Mission.

He intended this next week on the Scottish isle of Iona to be a retreat away from the demands of his parents and sister and childhood friends, who meant well, but were too filled with questions like, _What's next? What are your plans? Given any more thought to retirement?_ Or even worse, questions like, _How've things been lately? How's that James bloke you always talk of?_

John breathed in the familiar fresh air of the western Scotland, his heart filling with thrilled contentment at returning to his familiar spiritual retreat. Finally, a place of peace. He was so sick of feeling unsettled and broken--was positively craving the sense of wholeness he always felt on Iona.

It took only a moment or two of scanning the jetty beside which the ferry settled before he spotted Mike Stamford waving to him.

“John,” Mike said warmly, offering a hand to him. “It’s been too long, mate.”

John shook Mike’s hand gratefully. “All right, Mike?”

“’Course! Could do with more than one pub in this place, but it has its rewards.” Mike’s grin was wide, and John could immediately tell that his dry remark belied how happy he felt here.

“I remember. So tell me all about what’s new before we start talking about our pals Columba and Brigid,” John said, referring to some oft-mentioned Celtic saints.

As they slowly walked through the little town to Iona Abbey, pulling John’s wheeled suitcase between them, Mike filled him in on the new Historic Scotland signs and gates put up to corral visitors and inform them of the ancient ruins and sites around the town, which had seen nearly fifteen hundred years of Christian monks, nuns, priests, and pastors.  
John let Mike’s quiet talk wash over him as they walked through the village: a few houses and crofts, the pub, the corner shop, the tourist trap shop, a few B & B’s and inns along with some artisans’ shops. . .it made for a lovely summer scene, but only about a hundred residents had the courage to remain here year-round, especially during the chilly and blustery winters.

“And there she is,” Mike teased, opening a small gate from the main path. “She’s been waiting on you, John.”

John laughed quietly, but didn’t deny that this, the medieval Iona Abbey, made his heart beat faster and brought a twinkle to his eye. This place was the spiritual touchstone for John Watson, starting with summers of volunteering within its walls in his twenties—housekeeping for Abbey guests, performing maintenance, setting up chairs for worship, chopping vegetables, preparing tea, baking biscuits—and since his time in the army, it had been a place to come and pray and ask God: Why? Why? Why? Each year came with new questions, new losses to face.

Mike must have known that a lot was on John’s mind, because he allowed the silence to continue as they approached the abbey through the grassy courtyard, past the high, ancient crosses of stone.

Mike lifted the wrought-iron latch of the abbey door to let them in, and at once the cool stillness of the shadowed, age-old church enveloped him in calm, in peace, in the sense that here it was right to let everything out.

“Why don’t you stay here a bit?” Mike offered. “I can take your case up to the flat. Join me when you like.”

“Cheers,” John said, touching Mike’s shoulder absent-mindedly. John’s throat was tightening with emotion. He walked down the stone stairs and walked through the cavernous nave of the Abbey, feeling as though God were ready to meet him in his sorrow.

 

As much as John quietly had a good and thorough time of prayer in the Abbey—and intended to repeat it—he did not mean to remain isolated or inert. He would join in with the other pilgrims in the Abbey for worship, conversation, meals, and (probably) some arts classes. But he also had some walking planned, as well as some visiting with a few of his favourite locals: the postmistress, and the family who did the boating tours to the isle of Staffa, to start.

It took about two days before someone saw through John’s “just coming for a time of retreat” reasoning. It was Molly, the Abbey musician, whom he’d known for what was easily going on ten years.

“So what’s going on, John?” Molly asked one afternoon.

They were in the musicians’ loft in the Abbey, where Molly had shown him some new handbells that had arrived for use in worship. “This is more than the usual ‘war is hell’ business. Don’t tell me it’s not.”

John’s laugh was a small huff of embarrassment. “You’re right. Of course you’re right, Molly.”

Molly smiled. “I take little comfort in it.”

He was suddenly nervous. “What I’m going to say is between you, me, and the piano.”

He glanced down at the stony nave of the Abbey to check for visitors, but at this sleepy part of the afternoon there were only a few stragglers reading inscriptions in darker corners of the church.

“There’s a posh word that we priests always use about being confused and never making a decision about anything,” John began. “We call it ‘discernment.’”

Molly snorted, then delicately covered her mouth. “I hear that a lot around here, yes.”

“Well, I’m in the middle of discernment concerning,” John coughed, “my sexuality.”

Molly’s eyes lit up. “Really? Good for you! That’s wonderful!”

John laughed. “Thank you. Of course it’s all well and good to say that in the Iona Community. Here, if you say you’re gay, they throw you a party before you get to the end of the sentence.”

“You’re doing this for free cake, obviously,” Molly teased, smiling brightly.

John felt a little lighter, knowing she was taking this well.

"So… do you think you’re gay?” Molly continued.

“Bi, I think,” John said, his voice still careful and quiet. “And it’s not so bad in the army to be gay or bi these days, at least in the abstract, but when you want to date or be partnered…”

“That makes it more complicated, as usual,” Molly finished. “Guess it would be easier back home. So is this about someone special? That James you always talked about in emails?”

To his mortification, John actually felt himself blushing. He took the time to clear his throat and gather his composure.

“To a degree,” he admitted. “We talked about pursuing something, but it didn’t work out. We were seeing each other in secret, and that hurt us.”

“God, I’m so sorry, John. That’s awful.” Molly’s eyes searched John’s. “Oh! I just realized that your bishop is here now for Environmental Justice Week! Are you going to talk to him about it?”

John smiled. “Well spotted, Molls. That’s actually the reason I chose this week to come.”

“Oh my goodness. That’s exciting! You could stay in Britain and be in a parish! You could date and be with a man, if you wanted!”

“Don’t get too carried away—nothing’s decided yet,” John replied. “I might decide to stay in Afghanistan for a few more years, because Lord knows I’d get bored just tied to one little church. And there’s no guarantee that any given parish, or bishop for that matter, is as open-minded as you and me.”

“Then I’m going to have to ask a dumb question now, John,” Molly said. For all the quietness of her usual tone of voice, her words held little hesitation. “If it’s no easier to be bisexual in the Church than it is in the army,” she said, “then how are you going to know what the right decision to make for you?”

“Molly,” John said, warmly patting her forearm with his hand, “I think you actually are asking the smartest question. That’s been on my mind non-stop for several months now.”

 

After worship that evening John found the bishop of his diocese, Bishop Greg Lestrade, amid a crowd socializing over tea, coffee, and biscuits. The Abbey had several rooms within its walls for meals, visitors’ and staff quarters, meeting rooms, a kitchen, and a small dining hall, where a few dozen folks were milling about.

“Bishop,” John said cordially, offering his hand out for the other man to shake. “Could I bend your ear a moment?”

“John! Glad to see you!” The bishop set down his plate of biscuits and took John’s hand. “And call me Greg; I don’t stand on formality!”

 _Indeed not_ , thought John pleasantly, as he took note of Greg’s short-sleeved black clergy shirt. Some bishops would habitually only wear purple clergy shirts with big pectoral crosses for worship, but Greg had a reputation for being more casual. John hoped he was right in suspecting that Bishop Greg’s casual attitude translated to a progressive social attitude.

“Sure, Greg,” John said, successfully keeping the anxiety out of his voice. After all, this was simply a fact-finding mission, and he didn’t need to commit to anything based on this conversation.

After a few minutes of pleasantries, John and Greg found themselves settled in two chairs in the guests’ lounge as they nursed cups of tea and small plates of custard cream and ginger nut biscuits. John gave Greg some of the more brief and palatable highlights of army life in Afghanistan, and Greg updated him with some news from parishes around his diocese.

“Well, Greg, there’s something I did want to talk about with you in particular,” John eventually said, feeling that enough space had passed to cover the social niceties.

“All right, let’s have it then,” Greg said affably. John laughed at his laidback tone.

“No, really, John,” Greg continued, wrapping his hands around his cooling mug of tea. “I’m here to listen to anything that’s on your mind.”

“Thanks. I do appreciate that, Greg.” John paused, wondering what would be the best tack to take—it was a sensitive subject, a crossing of the Rubicon, and with someone that could exercise power over him if he so chose. After a moment, John decided that the rip-off-the-Band-Aid approach would at least get it done quickly.

“I’ve recently realised that I’m bisexual,” John said to Greg. “And with things being different now in both the Church and the military than they were even just a couple years back, I wonder if you’d give me the lay of the land. Is there a possibility that the ban on gay clergy in the Church of England marrying might be lifted anytime soon?”

Greg only showed a slight sign of surprise at John’s revelation; clearly, he was practised in diplomacy.

“Well, that’s a whale of a question, John,” Greg responded. “And certainly one with no easy answer.”

“Yes, undoubtedly.” John felt a mad rush of glee now that he had gotten through the most difficult part, but sobered again when he saw how serious Greg looked.

“I can definitely appreciate your candour,” Greg continued, “and I’ll keep what you’ve said in confidence.”

“Thank you.”

“As you know, this is a difficult time for the Church,” Greg went on. John could already tell he was hedging. “Same-sex marriage is, of course, legal in the UK, but it’s a continuing discussion in the Church; both the question of sanctifying same-sex marriages and that of allowing clergy to marry someone of the same sex. It’s not something that’s going to be decided easily or quickly.”

“So in other words, you don’t know yet,” John finished for him.

“I’m sorry, John, but you’re right. There are bishops and archbishops all up in arms on both sides of the issue, and all over the Anglican Communion worldwide, not just here.”

John nodded, trying not to frown. This was a familiar song-and-dance, the church dragging its feet on social issues and spewing pointless vitriol among themselves in the process.

“I. . .” Greg hesitated. “I don’t want to be someone who suggests that you ignore who you are, or stay away from dating men. You should still be careful and circumspect with your social life, as always, as a role model and clergyperson, but obviously you’ve got to have a life; and that means having a chance at love, too.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

“So in the absence of a better answer, let me just say. . .” Greg’s eyes locked onto John’s, sincere and melancholy. “I’m here for you, mate. If you need to talk to someone in a pastoral sense or just need a friend, trust me; I’m safe.”

“Thanks, Greg,” John said. He felt disappointed and relieved and hopeful and angry all at once. Really, he knew he couldn’t have expected a better result from this conversation just now. He finished the last swig of his tea and began to stand.

“Oh, John? One more thing.”

“Sure. What’s that?” John replied.

“We both know this is a safe space to talk about these matters, in the Community,” Greg said, “but make sure to be careful around the local priest in the other retreat centre. Philip Anderson. He’s eager, and means well, but he’s a bit . . . old-fashioned and by-the-book, shall we say.”

“Doesn’t surprise me any more,” John said grimly. “Ta, though.”

John retired to his guest room in Mike’s flat that night with a lingering feeling of familiar frustration. He was no closer to figuring out whether it would be easier—or whether God was calling him—to choose war or peace, love or safety.

 

After breakfast and morning prayer in the Abbey the next day, there was an art class being offered as a free time option for the Environmental Justice program with the Community, and John had already decided he’d take it. After all, it wasn’t like he often got opportunities like this back in Helmand.

Especially ones like this particular art class, for which they were meeting at one of the beaches to learn about creating art by gathering and pressing seaweed.

 _Well, when in Rome. . .or Scotland_ , John thought.

“Welcome, everyone!” The class leader, a small but spry older woman with a brightly patterned scarf, trilled as several people gathered at the North End beach. “My name is Martha Hudson, and today we’ll be learning about the emerging art of seaweed design. A bit strange, yes, but something natural and abundant on Iona!”

John noticed right away that, in addition to some of the familiar faces from the program week on Environmental Justice at the Abbey, there was a new person among them, standing at edge of the crowd. All that John had time to notice before Martha Hudson continued was that the new man was tall, lithe, and _blimey_ , strikingly handsome.

“What we’ll be doing here,” Martha continued, “is gathering up into plastic bags plenty of colourful seaweed strands for your art projects. I’ve got some pairs of scissors to share. Don’t be shy about how much you gather—there’s plenty here.”

“Excuse me, Martha—is this activity sustainable?” A woman asked in a slightly pretentious voice. Sally, John remembered her name was. “We wouldn’t want to have a negative impact on the local ecosystem, especially in the name of the Iona Community.”

The new man at the back spoke up, startling John.

“These types of seaweed are highly sustainable to responsibly harvest, especially inconsequential cuttings such as our group are making,” the tall man said silkily, stepping forward. “Additionally, before you ask, there are no poisonous species near British shores, and we are within our legal rights to engage in this activity, as Mrs. Hudson has gained permission from the owner of this part of the island, the National Trust of Scotland, so please refrain from making such inane inquiries. Do you honestly think that a person of her caliber would flagrantly engage in the kind of unethical behaviour you suggest, especially as an artist employed by such a ‘social justice’ organisation as the one at whose teat you’re all suckling this week? Use your brain.”

A moment of stunned silence from the crowd followed the man’s speech, until Martha Hudson began laughing.

“Sherlock, you mustn’t say such things to people you haven’t even met,” she chastised fondly. “Everyone, you’ll have to pardon my dear friend Sherlock Holmes. He may be the most intelligent and accomplished marine biologist in Britain, but he still needs to brush up on his tact.”

Martha opened up her arms to give Sherlock Holmes a hug, which he awkwardly bent down to receive.

“All right, let’s get to it, everyone!” Martha called out, her voice even merrier than before. “Take a few minutes and cut enough to fill your bags!”

As the group spread out to crouch toward the water and cut seaweed fronds, John found himself irresistibly drawn to Martha Hudson and Sherlock Holmes. He was simply too intrigued by this new person on the scene to let the chance to talk to him pass him by.

“Hello, I’m John,” he offered, internally wishing he had a more interesting opening line. “Are you just here to study the seaweed?”

Sherlock glanced to John, seeming to size him up quickly. “General flora and fauna of the island, really. Never miss a chance to get to the Inner and Outer Hebrides in the summer—now especially, since seaweed is all the rage in British vegan cuisine, not to mention in artistic communities, and there are new demands all the time for phycological studies for industry and pleasure.”

John nodded, pretending he understood everything the man said. God, were his blue-green eyes arresting. _Wonder if I could ask him to go for a drink at the pub._

“Could I borrow your phone?” Sherlock asked absent-mindedly. John thought he must have been asking Martha, but his inquiry seemed to include John too. “Need to send a text---mine’s not getting a signal at this end.”

“You should know I still don’t have one, dear,” Martha said, bending down to help one of the people snip a seaweed frond. “Too hectic, you know, getting text messages all the time.”

“You can use mine,” John found himself saying, reaching into his shirt pocket for the device. “I doubt you’ll have better luck getting a signal on this part of the island with mine, though.”

“Couldn’t hurt to try,” Sherlock replied, receiving John’s phone and taking a quick glance at it. “Ah—one bar. It’ll do.”

Sherlock fired off a quick text, but kept talking. “What are you doing with a smart phone kept on your person and turned on while you’re on retreat? Is it the military training that makes you need to always be on the alert?”

John’s brow creased. “How did you know--?”

“Not important. However, I suspect you are more interested in receiving an answer to your unspoken question, so---” Sherlock paused, giving John one more up-and-down glance. “—Yes, I will go with you to get a drink at the pub.”

Now John’s mouth fell open. “What—how--? I didn’t—”

“Yes, I know you didn’t ask, but you were thinking it very hard. I suppose you want to know how I knew that?”

John remained flabbergasted. “Did Molly put you up to this?”

“Molly Hooper, the musician at the Abbey?” Sherlock smiled briefly, then his mouth fell back into a serious line. “Allow me to explain. I suppose you wouldn’t want to see me again in a social situation unless you felt you could trust me.”

Sherlock turned away from the group of seaweed-gatherers to walk slowly down the beach, and John followed him. “That you’re a clergyman was no difficult leap to make. When you pulled your phone from your breast pocket, I caught a glance at a copy of the _Parson’s Pocket Book_ tucked in there next to it—once again, you really should learn to relax and let go of your planner on holiday. The rest of your appearance—haircut, posture, and how you walk—says military, so: a chaplain in the armed services. I’m certain that, with your tan limited to your face and hands but not extending above the wrist, you’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing, so: a deployed military chaplain. I see that you’re limping a bit and can surmise from that that you sustained an injury—whether real or psychosomatic—while in the service. Where does a British officer serve and get injured these days? Afghanistan or Iraq. You’d tell me if I asked, I’m sure. It’s rare for a chaplain to be wounded in the line of duty, however—you’re an intriguing case.”

“All right,” John slowly acquiesced. “But what about. . .the other thing?”

“Ah yes,” Sherlock continued. “That one was quite simple indeed. I observed the slight blush on your cheeks which suddenly emerged, coupled with the way you’ve been licking your lips repeatedly, and concluded that it indicates you are attracted to me. You approached me in quite a straightforward manner; if the conversation went well, the aim of a goal-focused person such as yourself would be to ask me out socially. But since the setting of the Iona Abbey grounds wouldn’t strike the right tone for a first date, and there is only one place to sit and purchase an alcoholic beverage on this island, your desire to ask me to accompany you to the pub was a natural conclusion for me to draw.”

John smiled, finally feeling brave enough to look Sherlock in the eye again. “That,” he said, “was amazing.”

Sherlock looked askance at John as they walked down the beach. “Really?”

“Definitely,” John replied, smiling, his spirits rising at his good fortune.

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.” Sherlock looked up at John again, smiling shyly when their eyes made contact. John laughed.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must dash down to Back Bay,” Sherlock said. “Time and tide wait for no man, and in this case, it’s particularly the tide that concerns me.”

“Seaweed emergency?” John quipped.

“Hardly. Oyster-catchers and sandpipers will be out this time of day in full force, and I need to observe them at the height of summer.” Then, for a moment, Sherlock’s demeanor softened ever so slightly, his words somehow a bit more tentative. “Tonight at Martyr’s Bay Restaurant, after your worship service?”

“Yes,” John said, suddenly feeling cheeky. “I’ll be the one with the military haircut and the _Parson’s Pocket Book_.”

Sherlock’s eyes turned warm. “I’ll be the one trailing sand behind me.”

He left John’s side and began walking away, calling out to Martha, “Until next time, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Do take care, Sherlock,” Martha answered. “Don’t you go doing something silly and drown.”

Sherlock was off, walking away toward the south at a brisk pace. His focus already seemed to be back on beaches and seabirds.

“A good man, that one,” Martha said to John. “Hard to pin down, but about as passionate a person as you’ll ever meet. As the locals say, he’d set the heather alight.”

John nodded in agreement, feeling he was returning back down to earth after being suspended, floating. He cleared his throat, realising he’d abandoned his original task.

“Guess I’ll catch up with the seaweed,” John said, crouching to grab a strand. He really couldn’t help the grin that kept finding its way onto his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go on an adventure on their first date, which gets literally bogged down. But don't worry--romance and fluff are in the air!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to A_Candle_For_Sherlock, who is very attentive with notes and encouragement!

Pressing the seaweed made for some intriguing and unique art, and John thought he was likely to take home his piece and perhaps even frame it, but those were just about the only two thoughts he could spare away from his date tonight with Sherlock.

_ Thank you, God, _ John prayed, and not lightly. Sometimes he went so long between dates or people showing interest that he had to wonder whether he still had appeal. Especially when people heard that he was a priest.

John tried to make himself savour the time between the morning and the evening, rather than wishing it away: anticipation was so sweet. Sherlock was handsome and smart and surprising and funny—if not very polite—and an evening in his intriguing company was waiting for them, filled with potential.

Between dinner and worship, John changed into a pair of twill trousers—casual, but the nicest he’d brought to Iona—a blue-checked button-down shirt, and a sport coat. Yes, people would notice that he had changed clothes, but he could chalk it up to the seaweed hunt earlier in the day. . .and hell, who cared if he had a date with a man? Apparently only the local parish priest did, not the lovely Christian hippies that he enjoyed spending time with.

The evening service at Iona Abbey was wonderful, as always: candlelit, simple, filled with songs, and focused on justice and peacebuilding.  John felt so much at home here.

After the service was finished, John went to the stairs of the music loft to have a quick word with Molly—he really wanted to tell her about Sherlock, since she’d been so supportive.

“I’ve met someone, Molls,” John said as she descended the staircase.

“Fantastic!” She said, her eyes lighting up. “Someone from the program week here? An islander?”

“Visiting biologist who’s here seasonally, apparently. You might know him—Sherlock Holmes? Tall, dark, handsome, imperious?”  

“Oh, I’ve seen him a time or two,” Molly replied. “He  _ is _ something of a dish! I’ve seen him crouching around the wild iris beds on the shortcut to the village, trying to spot a corncrake.”

John laughed. “He’s a wildlife enthusiast, alright.”

“Good for you, John!” Molly exclaimed, surging forward and hugging him. “I’ve wondered what his relationship status is, as they say, but he never gives little old me the time of day.”

“You can hardly blame yourself if he’s gay,” John teased. “Besides, the right person for you won’t be able to get enough of you, trust me.”

Molly’s smile was bright. “That’s very sweet of you, John. Now go—I couldn’t forgive myself if I made you late for a date with a gorgeous scientist. And you’re going to tell me all about it tomorrow!”

“Already in the plan,” John said, turning to walk back across the stone floor of the Abbey.

He greeted a few people on his way past, but he mostly had eyes for the main exit. John had briefly considered taking the famous shortcut to the village which Molly had mentioned, but that path could be quite muddy even in the summer and he didn’t want to risk mucking up his nice-ish shoes and trousers. So it was past the high crosses and down the main road for him.

The walk to the pub, which was quite close to the ferry jetty, would take him about ten minutes. Though it was 9:30 pm, there was still plenty of light because this was the height of Scotland’s summer, and the slight chill in the air made John glad for his sport coat.

Thankfully, he managed the walk quickly enough to refrain from psyching himself out about the date, although he was still nervous. John hadn’t been on a date since James, and he’d never been on a date with a man at all while home in Britain. Oddly, or perhaps naturally enough, the army was where he felt safest to explore a more adventurous dating life: everything was on the line, so who cared about social impropriety on one’s down time?

John opened the door to Martyr’s Bay Restaurant and headed to the bar side of the establishment, approaching the barman.

“All right?” John greeted him.

“Yeah, yerself? What’ll ye be havin’?”

“Laphroaig on the rocks—thanks.”

John paid and took his tumbler of Scotch, glad he hadn’t settled for beer or cider, much as he enjoyed them. He wanted to take every opportunity to imbibe the local “water of life”--Lord knew it was expensive in Afghanistan.

John turned and allowed himself his first glance around at the rest of the pub to see if Sherlock was already there. No sign of him yet among the tables and booths. John took a seat at an available table for two, attempting to act comfortable and natural. He tried to focus on gazing at the gorgeous view through the pub’s large windows of the rippling waters between Iona and the isle of Mull, but couldn’t stop himself from glancing back at the door.

Five minutes later it swung open rapidly, hit the wall, and revealed Sherlock. He strode directly to John’s table.

“The algal microbiome is flourishing on the island coasts; no reason to think that this aspect of the Hebridean ecosystem will experience problems due to industrial harvesting in the near future,” Sherlock began, apropos of nothing.

“Okay,” John answered, bemused,, and wasn’t sure what to say after that.

Sherlock shrugged off his black jacket—a Helly Hansen Royan raincoat, John noted with envy—and placed it on the back of the chair opposite John.

“Further, I’ve seen  _ no _ sign of brown algal disease affecting any of the coastal populations. It’s really quite encouraging.”

“I mean, that cheers me right up,” John said wryly.

Sherlock focused on John’s eyes fully for the first time since he entered the pub. “Right. You won’t want to hear about that.”

“I  _ would _ like to hear about your work,” John said, “But I haven’t a clue what that means”

“Of course. My fault.” Sherlock turned abruptly and walked to the bar. John heard him order a Coke with ice.

“Not a drinker?” John asked when Sherlock returned to the table with the fizzy drink.

“Not typically,” Sherlock answered. “Clouds the mind. If I must pick a mildly harmful drink to share in the company of others, this combination of caffeine and fructose is at least pleasant—and I’ll take the risk of developing diabetes along with the slight ‘buzz’ over the risk of a dulled brain and liver damage which alcohol affords.”

John laughed. “You’re just a delight, aren’t you?”

Sherlock’s brow creased. “Pardon?”

“Never mind,” John replied, still smiling. “I take it you had a good day of observation at Back Bay?”

“Very fruitful,” Sherlock said. “At least my  _ colleagues _ will benefit from the notes I’ve taken the last few days.”

John noted Sherlock’s rueful tone. “Your colleagues? What about you?”

“I’m not a formal part of their research teams anymore,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “We work for the Scottish Association for Marine Science—SAMS for short—just over on the isle of Mull. I’m assigned to a biochemistry research team, and right now the funding is putting us in the direction of researching for industry, especially concerning biofuel. But I’m not meant to be out in the field—I supposedly am more of an ‘asset’ to the lab, which is my cross to bear. They can’t handle someone getting ‘creative’ with their research methods.” He huffed. “Short-sighted and dull.”

John was amused. “I take it you’d rather be back out there, exploring again.”

“Of course—who wouldn’t? Working day in and day out within the same four walls is insufferable!”

John nodded. “I suppose you could say that’s why I joined the army rather than settle into a parish,” he said. “Being tethered to one place had no appeal for me, at least not ten years ago.”

Sherlock’s gaze became intent, almost a stare. After a few moments, he said, “But clearly you feel differently now. You’re looking for a substantial change, and coming here is supposed to help you to an epiphany about how to accomplish that.”

“Should I ask how you know that?”

Sherlock smiled. “Probably not.”

“Fluff on my sleeves, no doubt,” John joked. He actually hoped Sherlock would tell him.

In a rush, Sherlock said, “It wasn’t difficult to note your wording just now, and to observe how the timing of your visit coincides with your bishop’s attendance at the Iona Abbey programme week coupled that with the UK ceasing Afghanistan combat operations this fall and it becomes straightforward to conclude that you’ve not only been forced to seek a change; you welcome one.”

John hesitated. “I think you’re just spying on me.”

Sherlock looked down at the table for a moment. “I confess that I did ask Mrs. Hudson a few questions about you this afternoon,” he said, “and I spoke with a friend of mine on staff at the Abbey to find out the goings-on of the discussions this week.”

“Well,” John said, “I suppose that’s no worse than if you had Googled me.”

“Oh, I did that as well.”

John rolled his eyes. “Find anything interesting?”

“Surprisingly few details from the Royal Army Chaplains’ Department, but the article in the  _ Northumberland Gazette _ about your injury was enlightening.”

“Wow. Honestly, Sherlock, I don’t know whether to be flattered, or to inform the local police.”

Sherlock blinked noticeably. “Not good?”

“Bit not good, yeah.” Even so, John found that he was smiling again.

“Hmm.” Sherlock considered this. “I suppose you could be flattered that I find you interesting in a world full of boring people.”

John took a sip of his whisky. “Is it that rare?”

“Incredibly,” Sherlock said.

John set down his glass, considering his date once more. “So, Sherlock Holmes, are you a dangerous man, or a brilliant one?”

“Both, of course,” Sherlock said, his eyes glittering with roguish merriment. “Would you really want someone less than that?”

John had to admit to himself that Sherlock had a point. Suddenly Sherlock’s wicked smile was infectious.

“Tell me more, then,” John said, grinning.

“It would be easier to show you, quite frankly,” Sherlock said.

John really only had to consider that offer for a moment. He drained his tumbler of whisky and stood up.

“Then by all means,” he said to the handsome, intelligent, fascinating madman in front of him, “Lead the way.”

Sherlock stood, grabbed his raincoat, and whirled it over his shoulders in one smooth motion that contained a dancer’s grace.  John nodded to the barman on their way out of the pub.

The sky was still filled with the pastels of a slow sunset. Their feet crunched on the sparse gravel littering the paved village high street. For the first time it occurred to John that the road probably didn’t have a name, because it was the only one through the town.

“So where are we headed?” John asked, falling into step beside Sherlock, who was walking at a fast clip.

“I take it you’ve been everywhere on the island—Hermit’s Cell, White Strand of the Monks, Sandeels Bay, the Marble Quarry. . .?”

“Over time, yes.”

“Then I’ll take you on my favourite route to the Spouting Cave,” Sherlock replied. “Up to getting a bit dirty?”

John held back a laugh. That sounded like a double entendre, but he wasn’t quite sure with Sherlock.

“Sure, why not?” John said affably. “I like an adventure.”

Sherlock turned to the left, taking them closer to the actual beach called Martyr’s Bay.

After a few moments of walking, Sherlock said, “Why is there not a marker here to commemorate the monks who were killed here in the Viking attacks?”

“No clue. You’d think they’d want to let inquisitive tourists know,” John said. “So are you a history person, too?”

“Hard to avoid it around here. You can scarcely walk a yard without tripping over a Historic Scotland plaque.”

John snorted. “I know that all too well. When I was a vollie at the Abbey, we used to joke that there had to be a plaque somewhere commemorating St. Columba’s favourite place to take a piss.”

“Hm,” Sherlock laughed shortly. “You were a summer volunteer?”

“I was. My work was with housekeeping in the Abbey—I folded sheets, hoovered floors, taught guests the most efficient way to share chores, made endless tea and coffee. It was easily the best summer of my life.”

Sherlock led them on a sharp right turn off the road onto the craggy grass. “It seems to have been very formative for your personal development.”

“Definitely. It was very helpful in realising that I wanted to be a priest in some way, shape or form.”

Sherlock stopped a few metres from the road. “Take off your shoes.”

“My shoes?”

“Yes, John, those items adorning your feet,” Sherlock said, already pulling off his hiking boots and socks. “The best way to experience the heather is by feeling its texture against your bare feet.”

John laughed. “If you say so.” 

Quickly, he undid the laces of his shoes and removed them, along with his socks.

“Leave them here; they’ll be too cumbersome,” Sherlock said, placing his boots and socks neatly on the ground and starting on

John felt a twinge of excitement against his better judgment. “This is starting to get a bit mad.”

“Oh yes, but you like that,” Sherlock said, flashing John a knowing smile, with a slight lift of his eyebrows.

John’s breath caught in his throat for a moment. “God help me, I do.”

Barefoot on the cool ground,, the two of them set off. They would be covering two kilometres on the hike across the island to the Spouting Cave on the west-central coast. John couldn’t recall ever simply cutting across the middle of Iona before.

“Are you good at detecting bogs, then?” John said. “That’s the biggest hazard I could imagine on this walk.” The shrubby heather scratched gently against his bare feet, not unpleasantly.

“That and the sheep shit,” Sherlock said genially. “Just watch where you step and you should be fine. I’ve gotten into much worse.”

He laughed, surprised. “I can only imagine.” He felt the ground’s wetness, and a muddiness squelch between his toes. “You clearly love being in the field—do you just take it upon yourself to do this extra research?”

“When the mood strikes me or there’s something I particularly want to investigate, yes.”

John replied, “Brown algae and sustainable seaweed harvesting must interest you a l—” He broke off as his next step sank landed him in a bog, sinking him to his mid-thigh. “Fucking hell!” He tried to pull his leg out and failed. 

“Not to worry, I’ve got you.” Sherlock planted his feet and offered his hands to John. 

John took Sherlock’s hands in his own, and Sherlock began tugging him out.

“Sherlock, you said you were watching for bogs!” John grunted.

“No one knows exactly which step to trust until they try!” Sherlock groaned, lifting John back to solid ground.

“Well, that’s just perfect,” John grumbled, glancing at the mud coating his bare foot.

“Nothing that won’t wash off.” 

“Yes, but I think these trousers can be written off as a loss.”

“I’d suggest you take them off,” Sherlock replied, “but that would simply be foolish in the middle of a hike.”

“Yeah, that’s farther than you’re going to get me on a first date,” John joked.

Sherlock looked a little surprised. “Oh?”

John decided not to torture him too much. “But maybe you’ll be more fortunate after a few more.” 

He couldn’t be sure, but it looked to him like Sherlock blushed a little as he concentrated on staring at the ground.  

John smiled. “I have a feeling that you’re never boring.” 

Sherlock glanced back up. “Some have suggested it would be a nice change if I would be endeavor to be more. . .ordinary.”

“No, no, far too much of that around,” John said. “It’s practically an epidemic. I’ll take adventure any day.”

“Be careful what you wish for, or you could end up arse-deep in a bog,” Sherlock said, smiling shyly.

“Oh, it can be worth it.”

“I once had to rescue a researcher’s dog as it was paddling in some ocean surf,” Sherlock said, reflecting. “It was having a marvelous time swimming, but unfortunately it got caught in a rip current. Thankfully, I am a strong and quick swimmer, and knew how to refrain from getting caught myself.”

“Was the dog alright?” John asked.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock replied. “Very excited to be back to shore after I got an arm around him and brought him in. Benson, I believe his name was. A border collie.”

John’s heart warmed. He was glad to be correct in his suspicion that Sherlock was a caring person, brusque though his manner could be.

After few more minutes of walking—and sinking, as John went through the ground surface a few more times, up to his knees—they reached the rocky shore on Iona’s west coast and began scuttling over the wet stones.

“Not long now—watch your footing—” Sherlock cautioned.

“Ah, now he tells me,” John teased, holding his arms out a bit from his body for balance.

“Here we are,” Sherlock said, half- skipping over the sparse sand between the rocks that led them to the entrance of the cave.

“You timed this well.” He ducked his head as they entered the hollow space. “Tide’s out.”

“Actually, I left it to chance,” Sherlock admitted. “Each situation has its appeal: watch the spectacular beauty of the spouting water, or explore the cave while we have the chance.” Sherlock was right: though the tide was out, the water was still rippling back over their toes with the waves.

“This is brilliant,” John said, noticing the echo of his voice in the cavern. “I’ve never had the right timing to come inside here before.”

“It is beautiful,” Sherlock breathed, looking back to John, and suddenly it seemed that their words weren’t just about the cave anymore.

John knew he wouldn’t find a better time, and he’d been thinking about it all day, so he moved forward and upward to offer Sherlock a gentle kiss, his heart hammering with anticipation. Sherlock received it with equal softness, allowing John to linger against his lips. John hummed contentedly, then opened his eyes. “Is this okay?”

“Very,” said Sherlock against his lips. “Although we should move before the tide comes back in.”

“Oh, shit,” John said, looking down. The water was now lapping over his ankles, and closing in rapidly.

They sloshed through the tide back to the beach, and moved further up it to a safer place to watch the water rushing into the cave.

John felt Sherlock’s hand slip into his, which made his heart beat wildly all over again. Over the next few minutes, they watched the ocean water rush and gather within the cave until it was full enough to burst forth in a glorious spray.

“The views are best after a strong northwesterly wind, and at half-tide,” Sherlock said. “The study of the formation of caves, or  _ speleogenesis _ , is not my area of study, but it is fascinating to note that—”

“Let’s talk science in a little while,” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. “Right now, let’s just enjoy this moment.”

Sherlock looked at him quizzically. “I was enjoying telling you about the science of caves.”

“Yes,” John laughed, “but maybe we could just watch the waves together for a little bit.”

“I suppose we could, but wouldn’t you like to hear about—”

John decided to make his point with another kiss. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, and even allowed him to deepen it after a moment, John’s tongue moving just past the rim of his mouth.

After some very pleasant kissing and a few minutes of watching the spouting cave, they decided to head back on the return hike, hand in hand.

“I never knew getting caught in a bog could be this much fun,” John joked.

“Don’t speak too soon; you’re likely to end up in a few before the evening’s over!”

“Oi,” John said, poking him in the side with his free hand.

“Although to be fair, I learned more about how just watching nature can be pleasant.” 

“Oh yeah?”

“Of course, it could just be the company,” Sherlock said, smiling at his date.

John felt immensely proud of himself.  After a moment, he said, “When can I see you again?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows hitched up slightly. “Does that mean our date went well, in your estimation?”

“Of course, you berk! I don’t go around kissing just anyone, I’ll have you know.”

“I would like to see you too,” Sherlock said. “Thank you for accompanying me tonight.”

By the time they reached the point where their shoes and socks lay—after one turn from Sherlock to sink knee-deep into a bog, to John’s secret delight—it was decided that tomorrow would be their next date.

“Do you dance?” John asked. “We could go to the ceilidh at the village hall.”

“In point of fact, I love to dance,” Sherlock admitted. “It doesn’t come up often in my work.”

“Good!” John grinned. “We’ll be sure to dance the Gay Gordons together. Nothing would make me happier.”

Sherlock laughed, but then quieted suddenly. “John?” he asked tentatively.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“May I kiss you again?”

Now John laughed. “Of course. You didn’t even have to ask.”

Their kissing was a sweet way to complete the evening. But they still had some of the way to walk together to drop off Sherlock at the Argyll Hotel, so they walked a little more, and kissed a little more at the hotel garden gate.

Neither of them minded at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're interested. . .  
> A "ceilidh" (pronounced "kay-lee") is a Scottish or Irish social gathering in which music is played, dancing is danced, stories and jokes are told, and libations may be shared. You find events like these not only in Britain and Ireland, but in places worldwide where people are inspired to recreate a good time like this. The "Gay Gordons," as you'll see in the next chapter, is one of the dances that is popularly enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> For pictures and information on the Iona Community (and the isle of Iona in general), visit this link: https://iona.org.uk/  
> I volunteered with the Iona Community one summer, so a lot of how John feels about it is how I feel.  
> I myself am a Lutheran Christian, but I have a fair bit of familiarity with the Church of England and its politics; what John and Greg discuss reflects a contemporary struggle within Anglicanism. . .not to mention within other world churches.  
> 


End file.
